


When Itdendûm beckons

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [46]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dworin Week, Gen, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Ca. FA 60.Dwalin is still in Erebor, feeling his age creep up on him.Thorin? Well Thorin's been dead for some years, which didn't stop him from appearing in Act II.





	When Itdendûm beckons

**Author's Note:**

> If you really look for them, you will find some spoilers for the post-Zahrar Dwelf'Verse... I'm looking at you, Littlenori ;) but I don't think it's too much.

Dwalin looked old. What was worse, he thought, coming home from the training grounds where he’d spent the morning yelling at young soldiers, he was beginning to _feel_ old. Fíli’s daughter’s pebble was already walking, and Bombur’s brood had multiplied so much he almost couldn’t keep track of their names anymore. When he looked for those he had called friends and companions during his long, _long_ life, he also felt quite alone. Thorin was gone, and Balin, Óin, Ori, and Kíli, had been gone longer than he could bear to think about, lost in the darkness of Khazad-dûm. Dori had died before they’d learned that, of course, and left Nori a pale shadow of himself for years afterwards, bearing the grief for both his brothers. Bofur had returned to Ered Luin, and Dwalin didn’t actually remember the last time he had laid eyes on one of the ridiculous hats he always wore. Dís was gone, but that was an old wound, long since scabbed over, cauterized by the fires of vengeance. Glóin had retired to Aglarond, playing with his numerous grandchildren, and Dwalin had considered visiting, but been unable to make himself leave Erebor. His limp would have made the long journey arduous, and Dwalin was old enough to know when he _needed_ to listen to his body – as opposed to when he merely _should_ , as stated by one healer or another.

Walking into the house that had belonged first to Fundin, then Balin, and which was now his, since he had moved out of their rooms in the Royal Palace, unable to stand seeing Thorin’s ghost everywhere he looked, Dwalin scowled.

“Bad day?” the dwarf who was insouciantly lounging in Dwalin’s armchair asked. He received a wordless grumble in reply, which made him give Dwalin an unrepentant grin.

“I’m sure you’re here to annoy me into it becoming a better one?” Dwalin asked, pretending that he wasn’t pleased that Nori was home. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up living with Nori, whenever the sneaky dwarf was home – more often than not, these days – but he blamed Fíli. At least, it was Fíli’s idea. Maybe. Nori was good company, at least; kept the place from being all loneliness and silence. He also _always_ had gossip, which Dwalin had to admit he had started to appreciate with his advancing years.

“You know, I just might. I do live to serve, you know, such a compassionate dwarf I am, and all,” Nori replied, long practice letting him keep a straight face as Dwalin shook his head good-naturedly.

“Aye, and what story will you be servin me tonight then?” he grinned.

“Ah, only the finest gossip for you, my friend, direct from the Iron Hills. Your cousin’s had another son, and they’ve gone and named him Skalle.” Nori let that hang in the air, as Dwalin stared at him, trying to determine whether the ‘retired’ Black Owl was fibbing. He broke out laughing.

“Mahal wept, I hope that’s a bleedin lie.” Pouring himself a mug of ale from the flask Nori had brought, Dwalin sank into the other armchair, glad that his companion had started the fire in the hearth.

“Yes… so did I when I overheard it,” Nori admitted, “but no, straight from the mouth of Stonehelm himself,” neither of them ever called the Lord of the Iron Hills Thorin… there was only _one_ Thorin. “The pebble is named Skalle.” Dwalin guffawed.

“Well, you did manage to cheer me up, Nori,” he said, when his laughter had subsided into chuckles. “Got to report to Fíli or will you be staying home for dinner?”

“Neither, O growly one,” Nori replied, getting to his feet with a grace that belied his age and the injuries he had sustained over the years. “You are I are going to take a walk through the Market, because wee Bomba has invited us for dinner.” Dwalin groaned. Bomba’s tendency to invite them to dinner a few times a month was both heart-warming and seriously vexing. She had inherited her Adad’s talent for cooking, but Mahal, the _noise_. Having eight children should be a crime, Dwalin thought, every time he and Nori walked home from one of her dinners. At least, it made him appreciate the silence his own home offered the possibility of enjoying – when his place wasn’t being invaded by King Fíli’s offspring and their demands for stories.

“Must we?” Dwalin asked, a feeble protest they both knew he didn’t mean, playing out the same way every time Nori told him they’d be going to Bomba’s for supper. The Thief simply grinned, emptying his mug in a large swallow. Dwalin groaned again and slowly got to his feet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Waking in Itdendûm was far more crowded than Thorin had expected. Seeing his adad, not as worn as he remembered, and looking more like the absentminded but fond Dwarf he remembered from his earliest memories was rather shocking. Thraín, too, did not seem to know what to say, but then Frís was hugging him and the scent of her hair made Thorin want to _weep_.

“Amad,” he croaked, a greeting or a prayer, he did not know, and wrapped his arms around her like he might float away if he let go.

“Hush, Kundanudê,” she murmured, “give it time.” He just nodded into her shoulder.

“The Prince of Mirkwood taught us to brew tea the right way,” he mumbled, which was the first random thought that popped into his head.

“I am glad you made friends with Legolas, Thorin. I am very proud of you,” Frís replied, and Thorin could hear the smile in her voice. He felt no need to raise his head from her copious hair, a few shades darker than Fíli’s, and so familiar.

“You’re hogging my brother, amad,” someone said, and Thorin was quite sure he forgot how to breathe. Thinking about breathing made him wonder why he really needed to, considering he’d left his mortal body behind, but he decided not to question such a long-held habit in favour of lifting his face to meet the gentle smile of his golden-haired brother. The resemblance to Fíli was still uncanny, but he suddenly realised that he’d seen more of Frerin in the lad over the years than might really be there, with an odd pang of not-quite-pain. Frerin waved, his chuckle loud in the stone room.

Thorin’s fist in his face was equally loud.

“You moron!” Thorin screamed, punching him again for good measure, before hauling his younger brother into a bone-crushing hug. “Frerin,” he moaned. “Why did you- how could- YOU MORON!” he babbled, amid a sea of tears as he clutched Frerin to his wide chest.

“Well, I win _that_ bet,” Thorin vaguely heard Dís say, as Víli chuckled and Frerin patted his back weakly, his nose bleeding onto Thorin shoulder, which was another odd thing to care about.

“Ahh, nadad,” Frerin said, quiet enough that only Thorin heard him, “how could I not?” Thorin squeezed, making Frerin utter a breathless chuckle. “Besides, can you imagine what Dwalin would have had to say to me if I’d let you get your fool head chopped off?” Laughter laced his words, but Thorin knew that Frerin was simply releasing the tension.

He kept hold of Frerin’s hand through greeting Dís, hugging her and whispering pleas of forgiveness into her hair. It wasn’t until she released him with a cuff to the back of his head that he realised that he had two arms once again; the discovery made him feel almost faint. Seeing Kíli and Ori, their smiles wider than their faces made him want to weep. They had known, when word stopped coming from Khazad-dûm, he, Dwalin, and Fíli, but seeing his nephew waiting for him was harder than Thorin had expected. Balin’s smile was small and oddly shy, his hand firmly wrapped around Skaro’s, dark and pale skin adorned with matching rings.

“We never blamed you,” he whispered into his old friend’s ear, and felt Balin shudder once before he wrapped his free arm around Thorin.

“I have missed you, my friend, though I had hoped your arrival would take longer,” Balin said, in that same half-fond, half-annoyed tone Thorin had heard so often. When he was a dwarfling, it had made him angry, but now it made him laugh.

“Aye, well, it was time, I guess.” Thorin replied, resolutely not thinking about the Battle for Erebor.

“Thorin.” Thraín said, and Thorin turned at last to face the dwarf whose approval he had always sought but never felt he received. He stood there, unsure what to expect after 180 years apart. The next thing he knew, Thraín’s arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders. “Oh, my wee lad,” Thraín mumbled, his tone exactly the same as he’d used when Thorin tried to sneak away from bath time as a dwarfling. “You did so well, my son, my Thorin, so well. I am so proud of you.”

“Adad…” Thorin croaked, finally returning the hug. Neither dwarf realised that the small stone room was being efficiently emptied by Frís, silently forcing their kinsmen out.

Neither of them let go for a very long time, and if their eyes were less than dry by the time they did, neither mentioned it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> FYI, Skalle means skull... though it's also an affectionate name for someone who is balding... possibly not funny unless you're Scandinavian, but mwhahahahah.


End file.
